


Like a Low Rider

by OomnyDevotchka



Series: Kink Bingo 2013 [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Bottom Louis, Dom/sub, Double Penetration, Gangbang, Louis-centric, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 13:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/867876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OomnyDevotchka/pseuds/OomnyDevotchka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis has a <i>thing</i>. Harry (and some other guys) help him take care of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Low Rider

**Author's Note:**

> ...I have no idea what this is, I only know that it's not true. Not beta'd or britpicked. Fills the gangbang square on my kink_bingo card

            See, Louis loves Harry.

            He _loves_ Harry, not just in the you-jump-I-jump, just-a-girl-standing-in-front-of-a-boy-asking-him-to-love-her, rom-com way, but also in the you-piss-me-off-so-damn-much-but-I-like-you-anyway, even-the-awful-things-about-you-are-somehow-attractive, unconditional way.

            And their sex life is great. He is in no way insinuating that their sex life is lacking. It’s all balanced and loving and sometimes kinky but still respectful and shit.

            But see, Louis has this _thing_. He has this _thing_ where, sometimes, all he wants is to just be held down and _fucked_. And sure, Harry does that sometimes (tattoos standing out on his bulging biceps, full lower lip caught between his teeth as he thrusts so hard that Louis can’t _breathe_ , can’t _think_ ), but Louis’s _thing_ doesn’t stop with one man.

            He likes men, likes big cocks and washboard abs and being thrown around like he weighs nothing, and, in his fantasies, after Harry’s done fucking him, another man takes his place, then another, then _another_ , all of them surrounding him with their bodies while they pound into him over and over, until he’s so overstimulated he could cry.

            And they don’t stop even then.

            But the thing is, Louis’s _thing_ can never happen, because Harry is the jealous type (not that Louis blames him. Anyone would be jealous if their significant other had to pretend to date someone else, and besides, Harry handles his jealousy decidedly better than Louis does).

            So Louis continues to fantasize, and watch porn, and doesn’t say anything, becoming more and more frustrated all the time.

***

            It all boils over, surprisingly, when he’s with Eleanor. Management has gotten her down to London for the day (they’ve been doing that since the middle of the last tour, having her come down for ridiculously short amounts of time. The bigwigs have assured Louis that they have a plan, but Louis has done this song and dance long enough to know that they’re just pulling it out of their asses as they go, trying and failing to outsmart a bunch of teenage girls on the internet), and the two of them are walking down the Strand, hand in hand, while some people scream and carry on and take pictures of them, and others give them dirty looks when they’re prevented from moving as fast as they would like.

            Louis is completely checked out, because Eleanor’s a decent person, but they both know that they’ll never, ever speak to each other again once this charade is over, so what’s the point?

            Eleanor’s been over it for about as long as Louis has, so he doesn’t worry about hurting her feelings, knows that she’d rather be with her friends and actual boyfriend as well.

            As often happens when he doesn’t have anything important to attend to, Louis finds himself thinking about his _thing_. It’s not really smart to think about it in public, probably, but Management would love it if he got a boner while traipsing around with Eleanor on one of these mind-numbing outings, so who really gives a fuck?

            He’s pulled out of his reverie when Eleanor digs her fucking talons into his hand because he’s almost stepped into the street, and, mind still far away, he finds himself blurting out “What would you do if you had a _thing_ , like a sexual _thing_ , that you couldn’t tell George about it?”

            Eleanor looks over at him, wide eyed. The streets of London are loud, and Alberto’s trailing a few feet behind them, keeping the more overzealous fans at bay, so no one heard his outburst, luckily, but Louis usually makes it a point _not_ to talk about Harry with Eleanor, so he’s about to brush it off when she replies “Much as I _don’t_ want to hear about your sex life, I’m intrigued. Also, who the fuck is George?”

            “Honestly, Eleanor, shouldn’t you know the name of your own boyfriend?”

            “My boyfriend’s name is James.”

            “Close enough.” Louis takes a deep breath. If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do this all the way. “So, you know how I love Harry, right? I _love_ him, and not just -”

            “Not just in the rom-com way, but in the unconditional way, I know,” Eleanor says, impatient.

            Maybe Louis talks about Harry with Eleanor more than he’d thought. Oh well. “Well, see, I have this _thing_ , and it doesn’t just involve him, even though I love him and want to have babies and be buried in the same grave holding hands or whatever -”

            “So you want a threesome? Orgy? What?”

            Fuck it. “I wanna get gangbanged.”

            Eleanor actually lets go of his hand and walks a few steps ahead of him with a muttered “Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” and Louis can hear the fans start to yell and ask whether they’re okay. Management are going to be furious, but he doesn’t really care, just jogs up to her and grabs her too-small hand again, because he’s finally gotten it out and he wants to hear what she has to say.

            When she looks at him again, she’s wearing an expression that suggests she’s just looked into the eyes of death or something. She looks horrified, is the point, and she hisses “Why the fuck are you telling _me_ this? You don’t want me _there_ , do you?”

            Louis is sure that he’s now wearing the exact same expression as Eleanor. “ _Fuck_ no, are you joking? You’re just literally the only person I know who wouldn’t turn right around and tell Harry about this, because all my friends are assholes and also he hates you.”

            Eleanor seems to be recovering, slightly. “Thanks, that makes me feel so special. Why don’t you just talk to him about it?”

            Louis’s confused. “Why would I do that? _You_ , of all people, should know how jealous he gets. Remember the time with the banana and Paul’s rucksack?”

            She shudders. “I wish I didn’t. But look, if he loves you as much as you love him, he’ll humor you. Besides, he’s weird as fuck, so he’s probably into that shit anyways.”

            Louis wants to retort, but at that moment a fan darts past Alberto (is she an Olympic fucking sprinter or something? Louis swears she was going so fast she actually went blurry for a second) and manages to sidle up to them, brandishing a camera and excitedly asking for a picture, while at the same time darting worried glances between them as though she thinks they’re going to ‘break up’ right in front of her. They can’t continue the conversation, so Louis resorts to thinking ‘bitch’ as loud as he can in Eleanor’s general direction, even as he’s wrapping one arm around her too-slim shoulders and the other around the fan, giving a big, fake smile to Alberto, who’s holding the girl’s camera.

***

            Later that night, after Eleanor’s gone back to Manchester to do whatever it is she does when she’s not pretending to date Louis, Louis is sitting in the massive living room of he and Harry’s new-ish flat, watching a re-run of Doctor Who and eating leftover Chinese takeaway in his sweats.

            Harry’s been out wandering around Soho with his hipster friends all day, and as Louis waits for him to get home, probably accompanied by some imitation Impressionist art or a taxidermy German Shepherd or something, he amuses himself by trying to pick up one grain of rice at a time with his chopsticks and wondering if Harry would wait two thousand years for him like Rory did for Amy.

            (This train of thought leads to Louis imagining Harry in a Roman Centurion costume, and he puts that on the list of things to talk to Harry about.)

            The conversation with Eleanor, despite the fact that it consisted mainly of the word ‘fuck’ used in creative ways, had strengthened his resolve, and he’s decided he’s going to bring up his _thing_ to Harry.

            Tonight.

            Of course, when he hears Harry actually get to the door, open it, and promptly trip over one of the ten or so pairs of shoes Louis keeps by it, his resolve almost immediately flees.

            Harry walks into the room, hair covered by his favorite green beanie and carrying a shopping bag that Louis eyes with trepidation, and immediately says “What’s up? You look like you want to tell me something.”

            Louis groans and flops back onto the sofa, ignoring the rice and steamed vegetables that fall over his sweats. Looking up at the ceiling, he asks “How the _fuck_ do you do that?”

            “You’re easy to read, love,” Harry replies, ambling over to sit down right next to where Louis’s head had landed. Louis huffs and shifts a little bit to put his head in Harry’s lap, determined that he’s at least going to be comfortable while he ruins his relationship forever.

            Harry begins to stroke Louis’s fringe back from his forehead. “Did something happen today? Was it Eleanor?” he asks, voice slow and honey-sweet.

            “In a manner of speaking,” Louis hedges.

            “Do I need to fight her?” Harry asks, but there’s a smile in his voice (Harry doesn’t actually hate Eleanor, because Louis doesn’t think he’s capable of hating _anyone_.)

            “Yes. Fisticuffs at dawn.” Louis meets Harry’s amused eyes, pouting.

            Harry chuckles, and leans down for a kiss.

            No matter how many times Louis kisses Harry, he’s always surprised at the effect it has on him: it calms him down immediately, makes him centered and focused, clears away the panicked thoughts in his head. When Harry pulls away, Louis meets his eyes again and says “You know how we said that either of us could talk about what we wanted in bed, and the other person wouldn’t get upset? Well, I have something I’ve been thinking about, and I’m not sure you’re going to like it.”

            “Does it have something to do with Eleanor?” Harry asks. His voice is still teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of fear in it that Louis doesn’t like.

            He sits up. “No, Christ, why does everyone think that? You _know_ I don’t like girls.”

            Harry’s shoulders relax slightly, and when he says “By _everyone_ , you mean me and Eleanor?” there’s no more fear in his voice.

            Ordinarily, Louis would smack him for being a little shit, but he’s too nervous, and he decides to just come out with it. “Haz, I wanna be gangbanged.”

            He’s expecting Harry to maybe react like Eleanor had, to be upset, hurt, angry. What he’s not expecting is for Harry’s mouth to drop open and his pupils to blow out instantly.

            “Oh,” Louis says, and he feels arousal begin to curl in his gut.

            “Who would you want it to be with?” Harry asks, his voice even lower than usual.

            Louis hasn’t actually thought this far ahead. “Well, you, obviously. No one who we’d have to see every day. No girls. And if you even mention Nick Grimshaw, I’m leaving you.” The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how difficult it will be, what with the unique position they’re in as closeted celebrities.

            Harry doesn’t seem to share his compunction. “I’ve got some ideas. How many?”

            And Louis has been hovering around half-hard ever since Harry didn’t disagree with the idea, but that, the idea that he’s actually choosing how many men will fuck him, gets him the rest of the way there so fast he feels lightheaded. “Um,” he stammers. “Not too many, at least the – the first time.”

            “Five, including me?” Harry asks, smirk bigger than Louis has ever seen it, and the only possible response Louis has to that is to moan loudly and crawl into Harry’s lap.

***

            They decide to set it up as soon as possible, because Louis has been waiting for this for a long time, and Harry seems almost as excited as Louis is.

            Unfortunately, that whole ‘world famous boyband’ thing keeps getting in the way. The stadium tour’s coming up soon, and they have to ramp up publicity for that, even though it’s been sold out since pretty much the day it was announced, with an endless stream of meet-and-greets, press conferences, interviews, photo shoots, and ‘outings’ that only look unscheduled.

            Louis is impatient, sure, but something about the anticipation is really doing it for him as well. Harry won’t tell him who he’s gotten to do it, only assuring him that they’re game, they won’t talk, and they do _not_ include Nick Grimshaw, and he won’t even tell Louis when he’s scheduled it for, though Louis can guess, because they’ve got two days off coming up that are like a beacon of sexy, sexy hope on his calendar, and he and Harry have been together long enough that they’re usually of one mind on this sort of thing.

            Anyway, Louis spends the entire week and a half leading up to the event antsy, horny, and even more ill-behaved than usual. It gets to the point where Paul actually, seriously yells at him, something he never does, and Liam, who had been delighted with the uptick in pranks at first, starts to give him worried little looks, as though he’s actually trying to fit in with the ridiculous image that Management has come up with for him.

            The day before the double day off, they’re backstage at a photo shoot. Harry is shooting alone with a pretty model, face of the band and all that, and both to distract himself from this fact and because the idea of his fantasies coming true is still niggling in the back of his mind, Louis is talking a mile a minute at Zayn, Liam, and Niall.

            “It is never a good idea to listen to the fans,” he says, not caring that not one of the other boys is actually paying attention to him. “That is the number one lesson I’ve learned. In fact, I’ve considered getting that tattooed on my forehead. Although, then I wouldn’t be able to see it and remind myself. Maybe I should get Harry to tattoo it across _his_ forehead, and then I won’t have to be the twat with _snaf eht ot netsil ot aedi doog a reven si ti_ on my face.” He has to speak very slowly in order to get the backward words right, and he doesn’t allow the fact that Zayn looks up from where he’s texting Perrie long enough to roll his eyes diminish how proud he is of getting it right.

            He opens his mouth to speak again, he’s not even sure what about, but then a large hand falls on his shoulder and he’s surrounded by the heady scent of Harry, who whispers in his ear “Tomorrow, babe,” before winking and sauntering off to wardrobe.

            If the other boys thought he was annoying _before_ , they’re in for a shock.

***

            When Louis wakes up the next morning, Harry is gone, his side of the bed still warm, and Louis’s anticipation has built up to a fever pitch. No matter how much he’s imagined this, how much porn he’s watched, he still doesn’t really know the protocol for this. Will it be a morning gangbang? Is that even a thing?

            He’s gotten excited for nothing, though, because Harry just brings tea in a few moments later, the frilly apron Louis had gotten him as a gag gift that first Christmas, when was still adjusting to the curly-haired boy who had burst into his life and become his whole world, tied firmly around his waist. “I’m making a fry-up,” He says, beaming bright as the sun, and Louis tries to hide his slight disappointment as he sips his perfectly made tea.

            Harry sees right through him, of course, and sweeps out of the room with a “Patience!” called over his shoulder.

            “Wanker!” Louis cries right back.

***

            The rest of the day is shockingly normal. Harry and Louis argue over whose turn it is to run to Sainsbury’s for some milk. Louis beats Harry solidly at FIFA, because Harry is just as useless at virtual football as he is at actual football. Louis and Harry make out on the sofa for a half hour. Louis and Harry eat lunch and dinner, sitting across the kitchen table from each other, feet hooked together underneath.

            Louis tries to let Harry take the lead, really, he does, but, about an hour after dinner, he can’t take it any longer.

            He plops down on Harry’s lap. “If you were lying yesterday, you’re going to pay,” he warns, jabbing a finger at Harry’s face.

            “Wasn’t lying,” Harry promises, and, as if on cue, the doorbell rings. Harry gently pushes Louis off his lap, then says “Stay here,” and runs to get the door.

            This is it. Louis is nervous, more nervous than he’s been in a long time, but it’s a good nervous, makes him shivery and weak in the knees. He wonders if he should start taking his clothes off, but dismisses the idea. He’s pretty sure this is going to be one of the times that Harry is in control, and when Harry is in control, he likes to _really_ be in control, doesn’t like it if Louis does anything without his express permission.

            So Louis waits, fidgeting and ignoring the press of his cock against his jeans. The minutes drag on, until ten have passed since the first ring of the doorbell. It’s rang twice since then, and Louis figures that Harry must want to assemble all the participants before he brings Louis in.

            Finally, _finally_ , the doorbell rings for the fourth time, and Louis hears Harry’s heavy footsteps coming back to get him. He stands up off the sofa on shaky legs and wipes his sweaty palms along the sides of his jeans.

            Harry’s head pokes around the door, eyes soft. “Ready?”

            Louis only nods. He’s not sure he’d be able to form words right now.

            Harry beckons him over and Louis goes, obedient. Harry drags him into a quick kiss when he gets there, pulls back, murmurs “Love you,” then grabs one of Louis’s hands and leads him out of the living room.

            He expects Harry to walk towards their bedroom, or one of the guest bedrooms, but is surprised when Harry leads them towards the rec room instead. He supposes it makes sense: there are a lot of soft surfaces in that room, as he and Harry and found out in their very thorough christening of the flat, though Louis’s not sure he’ll ever be able to look at Spider-man the same way after tonight.

            They pause for a second outside the rec room door, just long enough for Harry to give Louis one more reassuring smile, and then they step inside.

            Four heads snap up at their entrance, and Louis takes a moment to look them over.

            One of the men is an intern they’d befriended on the set of their last music video, called Ethan, two are footie players that they’d met when they had done that stupid promo last spring, though Louis doesn’t remember their names, because he’d met so many of them, and the last one is radio one personality Greg James, who gives Louis an awkward little wave.

            They’re all very, very attractive, and Louis wants to make a glib remark, but he can’t think of anything besides what’s going to happen in just a few short moments.

            From behind him, Harry speaks up. “No matter what happens in here, lads, I’m in charge,” he says, and people often think that Harry’s people-pleasing tendencies make him a pushover, but Louis knows better, and that has never been more obvious than it is right now.

            Harry waits for all of the men to nod, and then turns Louis around and pulls him into a kiss, lips firm as he begins to strip Louis, getting him out of his trousers first and then disconnecting their lips for just a moment to pull the shirt over his head.

            From behind him, Louis can hear the other men removing their own clothes, hears the slick sound of one of them fisting his own cock, and he clings onto Harry like a lifeline as Harry gives him one last firm kiss and then removes his pants, leaving him standing completely bare in front of five other men. 

            Harry grips Louis’s shoulders, still gentle, and spins him around, then says “On your knees, love.”

            Louis is obeying before Harry even finishes speaking, and he can see the effect he’s having on the other men, see the various states of undress and the lustful looks on their faces. He’s longing to touch his own cock already, but doesn’t, trusting Harry to care for him and decide when it’s time for him to come.

            “Who wants to go first?” Harry asks, and all four of the other men look at him, eager.

            Harry pauses for a moment before selecting one of the footie players, the beefier one that Louis thinks might be Portuguese. The man walks towards him slowly, pulling his trousers and pants down just far enough to get his cock out, and Louis’s mouth begins to water at the sight of it, all red and flushed against his stomach.

            The man stops in front of Louis, and Harry must give some sort of signal, a nod or something, because without further ado, the man is sliding his cock past Louis’s lips, bringing one hand up to tangle in his hair.

            Time begins to move strangely. Louis feels like he sucks the footie player’s cock for hours, up, down, flick of the tongue across the head, back down, but it can’t be more than a few minutes before he can feel Harry behind him, shifting him forward until he’s on his hands as well. The footie player steps back as Louis goes, cock still hard but now shiny with spit and precome, and Louis looks up, slightly dazed, to see that all the men have come to surround him, boxing him in as he kneels on the ground.

            It’s _scorching_ hot, maybe the best Louis’s ever felt, and the sensation is only increased when he hears the quiet snick of a bottle of lube opening. “I get to open him up,” Harry says, voice barely more than a growl, “But since you’ve been so patient, Greg, you can fuck him first.”

            As he finishes the sentence, Harry shoves two lube covered fingers inside Louis, knowing he likes it a little rough when he’s like this. Louis lets out a loud groan and the other footie player hisses out “ _Jesus_ ,” before looking up to Harry nervously. “Are we allowed to talk?” he asks, and Louis would find it funny, because this guy has thirty pounds of pure muscle on Harry, easy, but Harry shoves another finger in just then, twisting them expertly, and the thought is lost in a haze of pleasure.

            “Of course,” Harry says. “But remember that’s my boyfriend you’re talking about.” He pulls his fingers out of Louis, satisfied, and Louis immediately feels the blunt head of a cock on his hole.

            This entire time, he’s been trying his best not to let himself go, not to let himself show how much he’s enjoying this, being the center of everyone’s attention, but just that little touch makes his resolve break, and he shoves his arse back, because he needs a cock inside him, _now_.

            “Jesus, look at you,” someone whispers, almost reverently, but Louis is too far gone to know or care who it is, because Greg’s listening to him, and fucking in, so hard that Louis’s arms buckle.

            Time starts speeding up as soon as he’s saved from faceplanting on the ground by someone’s arms, only to have another cock shoved into his mouth as soon as he’s relatively stable again.

            He sucks on the cock desperately, his usually perfect technique giving way to sloppiness as Greg continues to pound into him, hard, smooth thrusts that cause him to jerk forward with each one, forcing the cock down his throat just that little bit more.

            He feels _amazing_ , full and slutty and used, and all it takes is Harry’s voice in his ear, a gentle whisper of “You look so good like this, babe,” before he’s coming hard, the cock still in his mouth muffling his cries.

            They don’t let up when Louis comes, though, and he doesn’t want them to. Greg’s getting erratic and sloppy, clearly close to orgasm himself, and it’s only a few more strokes before he comes. He’s saying something, but Louis doesn’t understand, because the cock is being withdrawn from his mouth as Greg pulls out, and he whines low in the back of his throat, because he is not pleased at how empty he feels.

            Someone whispers “Pushy. I like it,” in his ear as they pick him up bodily, and he barely has time to breathe before he’s being sat down on another cock. His thighs are already burning from before and he’s sure he has rug burn on both of his knees, but the slight pain only heightens his sensation, and he pushes it to the back of his mind as he begins to roll his hips.

            Whoever he’s riding is a little bigger than Greg, and Louis throws his head back and lets out another groan at the renewed stretch. His own cock is slowly filling again, bouncing up and down against his stomach, and he can’t stop the little grunts and whimpers that are being pushed out of his lips, now that there’s no longer a cock to muffle them.

            Someone says “That’s it, baby, you sound so pretty,” and then Harry gives a sharp “Oi!” Louis locks on to Harry’s voice, allows it to be the thing he clings onto as the burning in his thighs gets worse, and he breathes out Harry’s name like a prayer.

            Louis’s eyes are closed, haven’t opened since he came, but he’s always so aware of Harry that he feels it when Harry comes close to him. “I’m here,” he says. “They’re right, you know. You’re doing so good, look and sound so pretty like this.”

            Harry’s hands come to his face first, and then Louis feels the rest of them on him, resting on his hips, running finger around his stretched out rim, taking a little bit of the pressure off to make Louis’s motions easier. This allows him to go faster, shift his hips a little so that the cock is right at his prostate, and he feels the hot spurt of come inside him with just a few motions.

            Cock still hard, two loads of come dripping out of his hole and down his inner thighs, Louis is lifted up yet again and placed on his back. He can’t tell where he is, is just grateful for the reprieve his abused knees and thighs are getting, and as the third man of the night enters him, Harry begins to speak again. “Lou, baby, think you can do something for me?”

            Louis’s “Yes” comes out on a groan, but it’s audible, at least. Harry’s warm hand wraps around his cock and gives a few tugs as Harry asks “Think you can take two at once?” and then Louis is coming for the second time with a shout.

            The stimulation is too much, now, and the fact that he’s already come twice as well as the fingers that are now entering him next to the cock and stretching him farther than he’s ever been stretched causes tears to fall from Louis’s eyes.

            “Alright?” Harry asks, and Louis nods frantically, too far gone to speak. He opens his eyes, and sees the blurry form of the one footie player who’s standing at the foot of the sofa, fucking him and who also has three fingers inside his arse. He’s going slow and steady, and as Louis watches, he gives a smirk, removes his fingers, and beckons someone else over.

            The other footie player doesn’t waste any time in pushing his own cock in beside the first, and Louis’s back arches so far it’s almost painful. It’s nothing, though, compared to the pain in his arse, and he’s almost positive he’s tearing, or something.

            “Slow down!” comes Harry’s sharp voice, and the two footie players stop and let Louis adjust. He closes his eyes again, blows out a breath, and then the two of them are thrusting again.

            It’s odd, because he can feel both the cocks inside him, moving just slightly out of sync, but that thought just barely registers in his mind over the way every single one of his nerve endings feel like they’re on fire.

            Louis doesn’t know what happened to the other two guys, can’t feel their hands on him anymore, but Harry’s are there, sliding over his stomach, running through his hair, wiping away the tears that are now falling steadily down his face.

            The two footie players come within seconds of each other, and then there’s just one man left.

            Harry brackets Louis with his body as he pushes in, the mess of come and lube and how wide Louis was just stretched making it so there isn’t even a little bit of resistance. Louis can feel some of Harry’s curls tickling his cheek, and he’s grateful for the distraction, because his cock is filling up again and it _hurts_ , and he doesn’t know how much more of this his body can take.

            Harry’s saying things, sweet things that go in one of Louis’s ears and out the other. Louis is full-on sobbing now, Harry’s name and “please” and “can’t” coming out every so often.

            Harry reaches down to fist Louis’s cock again, and Louis cries out “No, no, I can’t, I _can’t_.”

            “If you really want me to stop, I’ll stop,” Harry says. “But I think you can.” He thrusts in, hard, as he says it, and Louis is pushed over the edge one last time, cock only spurting out a few drops of come, and he’s too far gone to even make any noise.

            He barely registers anything for the next few minutes, hears low voices and feels Harry’s cock leaving him but doesn’t react, floating in a space that’s very close to unconsciousness.

            He’s brought back to himself when Harry kisses him on the cheek. “We’re alone again,” he says. “You want a bath or something? You’re filthy.”

            Louis can feel it, feel the combination of fluids congealing in various uncomfortable places, and he nods, musters the last of his strength to raise up his arms.

            Harry understands him, always does, and he lifts Louis into a bridal carry, taking him towards the bathroom. “Good?” Harry asks.

            “I think that was the best idea I’ve ever had,” Louis gets out, and as Harry kisses him on the top of the head and then lowers him gently into their huge bathtub, he adds “Just so you know, you are carrying me everywhere tomorrow.”


End file.
